Chapter 7

My head, bobbing out of the carriage's window frame. My mouth is a fly trap as I gawk at the High King's dwelling. A castle for a king is not only his home, but it is designed to repel an invasion with embattlements meant to discourage ambitious assailants. The castle is armed with heavy fortifications intended to defend but still manages the sublime beauty of a palace. An architectural feat. 

As we approach the gilded gates, our carriage persists, moving steadily towards these golden arms that, with a grand flourish, sweep open to welcome us. The motion is graceful, almost ceremonial, as if the gates themselves are acknowledging our arrival. Standing at every spaced interval are guards in striking wine-red uniforms, their presence both regal and formidable. Their uniforms add a rich contrast to the golden gates, creating a scene of elegance and authority.

Beyond the gates, the gold-plated teeth of the portcullis rise, revealing a path that leads us further into this realm of splendor. As we pass through, I feel a sense of awe and anticipation, the grandeur of the entrance setting the stage for what lies ahead.

We journey alongside the virescent green expanse of the front yard, a lush and vibrant stretch of manicured lawn that seems to stretch endlessly. The grass is a perfect carpet of green, meticulously maintained and interspersed with bursts of colorful flowers. The fragrance of blooming roses and jasmine fills the air, carried by a gentle breeze that whispers secrets of the wonders to come.

The path we travel is lined with tall, stately trees, their branches forming a leafy canopy overhead.

The pristine, palaver road elongates to the front where a string of imperial carriages stands idle. My gaze wanders along the extensive dimensions of the castle with structures and additional buildings. Everything is so picturesque, glistening, and grand as if conjured from the storybook of a child. The gold-domed towers, the front entrance that is held up with the most ostentatiously detailed pillars. The exterior of the castle is a mirage of gold that has maintained its aged lustre.

In due course, we reach the end, and the coachman leads the carriage to file in with the rest. Eight other men, nobly dressed, stand clustered together. I don't even realise that the carriage had stopped because my door is already wide open. I inhale a deep breath and move to exit. The coachman lends a hand to escort me down the thick steps. I brush past it as I look to my left—all of them are huddled together beside the line of carriages.

A short howl catches my attention, a sound of dramatic disgust. "I knew I smelt something rotten in the air," one of them announces.

Truth be told, I'm not sure who said it. My eyes skim over their fine faces, their intricate suits with embroidery that must have taken weeks to weave. It pains me to confess that they are all outlandishly handsome.

Yet, with the leers and sneers that mar their faces, it serves as a stark warning of their contradicting countenance.

"Are you lost? The servant quarters are out back." The loud one scans me down scathingly. "Though by the look of you, the mere sight suggests you are unfit to sweep even the dust from the castle floors."

"I wouldn't even have her cleanse the dung from the cattle's hides," another adds.

A rush of rage pushes me towards them and a chorus of scornful laughs rises from them, amused like I'm some animal in an enclosure meant for their mockery. Which makes me certain that in just a few moments, I'll likely be sent to the gaols. Before I can make a mistake that I'd rue, a man impedes my path and the laughs swell to a cheer.

"Solaris, my good man. Careful, it looks like it bites."

"Be sure to see a physician if it does."

The man is smart to not touch me, raising his hands in placation. "Restrain your emotions and do not yield to their provocations; they are undeserving of such indulgence."

His words stem the tide and the knotted tension in my shoulders ease.

A crescendo of marching boots thuds like the beating of drums. Everyone turns their gaze to the stairs that ascend gracefully, a cascade of pure white that gleams under the soft light.

Descending this majestic staircase are two long rows of guards, their uniforms a striking wine-red, each adorned with a large gold insignia emblazoned on their chests. The deep, rich hue of their attire contrasts vividly against the alabaster, creating a regal and imposing spectacle. The guards move in unison, their steps measured and precise, like a disciplined crimson tide flowing down the staircase.

As they make their way down to the carriages, a coachman accompanies each guard, ready to assist with the offloading of luggage stored in the integrated trunks.

Once this sea of red culminates at the foot of the staircase, a man dressed in a full white suit follows them. He stands out with a stately red sash slung across his chest, the vibrant colour symbolizing his importance and authority. His attire, a flawless ensemble of pure white, mirrors the staircase's alabaster sheen, making him a vision of elegance and command.

He halts halfway down the staircase, closer to the bottom, positioning himself optimally for projection.

"Welcome, welcome our esteemed guests from each of the kingdoms under His Majesty. Which one of you will one day rule." His frivolous voice is rich with mirth. "For the duration of the King Trials, I will be your host and guide. Your Duce. Merian at your service." He bows dramatically and flutters his hand in a majestic flair. "If you will follow me, I will lead you inside to the throne room where our High King awaits."

He spins on his heels and struts back up the steps. The cluster of noblemen dilutes as they all pursue the Duce in unorganised clumps. I wait so I can follow behind with a decent distance between me and those bastards.

"Hera Aurora."

The title nearly makes me stumble on a step. The young man that had stopped me approaches me mid-flight and sidles my flank. His heavenly gold hair fit well with his bushy eyebrows and high cheekbones that rest on skin pulled tight like a bolt of fine cloth.

 "I am Herem Solaris of Regnum Cain," he kindly introduces. 

I glance at him askance. "Forgive me if I gave the impression that I would care."

Solaris chuckles good-naturedly. "It must be your terrifying attire or your formidable scowl that makes you so approachable," he says with sarcasm soaking every word.

I fix him with a glare that softens, but by only the slightest degree.

"Find no fault in me saying this, but I am both astonished yet unfooled by your advent."

To muse him, I ask, "And why is that?"

"Astonished that you are the first and only female candidate in the King Trials. Unfooled that because you are. You may be our biggest adversary." 

"I am bastard-born, and I have lived a life you would all deem as inferior."

I look back at him, those mesmerising, empyrean-blue eyes. There is a flicker of incalculable curiosity over his genial smile. Dashing and dangerous.

"On all accounts, I am no threat."

He smiles and nods his thoughtfully. "My father told me that to underestimate an enemy in battle is a fatal mistake."

I glance back at him inquisitively. "Are we enemies, you and I?"

"Of course not," he says quickly, blinding me with a bright smile. "I am fully aware of our current positions. We remain uncertain of the horrors and wonders that await us in the trials ahead. If friendship is beyond our reach, let us at least strive to be allies. I believe it may hold a strategic advantage for us both. Something no one would anticipate."

I anticipate encountering two forms of condescension. First, patronizing drivel intended to belittle me, portraying me as nothing more than a fragile woman whose inclusion in the Trials is merely a token gesture rather than a recognition of merit. Second, shallow sentiments and words of amity meant to beguile me into thinking that any of these pruning peacocks are anything but my opponents.

I offer him a compelling smile.

We finally reach the top of the staircase where gilded double doors are swept open on arrival. Guards flank the golden giants on either side with blood-red spears in their grasps; a head taller than they are. We are led through to the front courtyard. The sun glares down upon the thick cobblestone walls, leaving deep shadows contrasting with the vibrant reflections.

Duce Merian educates us about the castle's layout with an extensive overview. In essence, a design based on an antiquated structure with gothic features reinvented in a modern style. Since the twelfth cycle, the architecture of the castle has attempted to produce a contemporary reinterpretation of older fashions and traditions, repeatedly imitating antediluvian styles.

The keep extends upwards to produce a more imposing height and silhouette. The interior of the round tower that was further redesigned in order to provide additional space for the Royal Archives, an additional room being built in the space left by the hollow extension.

The western entrance to the middle ward is now open, and a gateway leads north from the ward onto the north terrace.

The upper ward comprises several major buildings enclosed by the upper bailey wall, forming a central quadrangle. The state chambers are situated along the northern boundary of the ward, with an array of edifices constructed beside the eastern wall, and the private royal quarters. Beneath the Round Tower resides a bronze statue of Urium's inaugural High King mounted upon a steed.

The upper ward is adjacent to the north terrace, which offers a scenic vista of the River Old. Concurrently, the east terrace presents a panoramic view of the city. The walls of the upper ward are constructed from stone-faced elements on the interior, adorned with intricate details crafted from yellow Bath stone. The skyline of the upper qard is designed to be spectacularly silhouetted against the horizon.

Duce Merian drones on about the ornate wooden stalls that are decorated with a unique set of brass plates showing the arms of the Avangardians. Because of the castle's position on top of steep ground, it means that the gardens are limited in scale. 

We, the tour group, are finally directed inside the primary entrance. The soaring diamond-crystal walls glazed with opulence, a baroque vaulted ceiling that dares to reach the heavens. The crystalline surface of the floor appears as if it has been varnished with gold. Statuesque guards stand stagnant beside each palatial pillar.

The distance that stretches ahead and the walls that tower above render us specks compared to the soaring splendour of the interior. Duce Merian meanders to the left, and we pass through a massive Ionic archway to the enormous and flamboyant throne room.

The throne room boasts royalty with crimson and gold to revel in its glory. Cathedral-like windows run in succession along the crimson walls that herald in a treasure of light that illuminates the vast breadth. On the one side, there is a line of guards, but there are no ordinary guards. These soldiers are gladiator size, and their uniforms are of a darker red, redder than blood, plated with fitted burgundy armour with the same colour cape to add to their grandeur. They stand in a long vertical line, eyes trained ahead as we walk past.

Opposite them is a trail of handmaidens, servants that stand in two rows in cherry red uniforms with white aprons belted around their waists. Their hands clasped in front of them, and their gaze locked on the floor.

At the brink, an elevated platform commands attention, where two resplendent golden thrones sit, encrusted with an array of jewels and intricate decorative metals. Each throne is a masterpiece of opulence, shimmering with the brilliance of countless precious stones.

Upon these thrones, the figures of power hold court. The High King reclines with an air of regal nonchalance on his majestic seat. His crimson crown, adorned with blood diamonds, gleams with an ungodly allure, each gem capturing and reflecting the ambient light with a haunting beauty. The crown rests imperiously upon his head, a symbol of his unquestionable authority.

Draped over his shoulders is a golden cape, its rich fabric pinned with ornate clasps that shimmer in the light. The cape flows down his back, sweeping the floor in a cascade of opulence. The High King's hands, resting casually on the arms of his throne.

The High Queen is graced in a gown of gleaming blood orange. The dress cascades in graceful folds, enveloping her form in a vibrant sea of colour. The material shimmers with every movement, catching the light and reflecting it in a mesmerizing dance of orange and red.

Her legs are neatly crossed, exuding an air of composed authority. The hem of her dress drapes elegantly over her legs, the rich hue of the fabric accentuating her poised and commanding presence.

In unison, all eight males bend the knee into a lunge position with their faces to the ground. I look around, panicked, before I too drop to a lunge. The other Herems poorly attempt to stifle their smiles. Which tells me I did something wrong. I was never educated on how to act in the audience of royalty.

"The pureblood descendants of my Domuses," the High King begins, "It states in the Shalem protocols that both the Decuria and the High Tribunal are to be present for the initiation of the King Trials. I refuted. I wanted you to come as you are. So arise," he commands.

Simultaneously, we all rise to full height with our gaze slightly lowered to avoid eye contact.

"It seems our loss is your gain. With the tragedy of my son's death, the Dophan, the inheritor of my throne. You all stand to be the next High King... Or Queen."

I can almost feel the strength of his stentorian voice in my direction. Every word he utters with such power that he emanates inexorably.

"The protocols were written by the first and were made indelible. But as I reign, I have the authority to change it at my whim. And I have. At the eventide, a banquet will be held in honour of the initiation, where I will reveal the tests of the first King Trials in Urium history." 

I do not know what gives me the gall, but I sneak a look upwards. But the High Queen's gaze is already fastened on me. My eyes shoot back down, trying to quell the flare of panic. 

"Everything will be explained at the banquet. For now, as our security procedure insists, you and your luggage will be searched. Then my servants will escort you to your bedchambers, so you all can seek rest after your long journey here to my Dominion."

On cue, nine guards riven off from the others and march stiffly towards us. The other candidates space themselves out and a guard goes to each, patting them down harshly and thoroughly.

In a flash of red, a guard stands before me. His lunar-shaped eyes are orbs of inky black, half-dome cheekbones that sit above an oaken jaw. The top part of his hellish black hair is tied in a neat ball and the rest is free to fall to his Spartan shoulders that bespeaks strength.

He would be inconceivably handsome if those stygian eyes did not fill me with such a fear I have never felt before. He signals with his hand and motions for me to raise my arms. And I do, standing like a cross. He dangerously moves out of the field of my view. Soon I feel his large and strong hands, rough hands, on me, but his touch is surprisingly gentle. He does the full scope of my arms, scouring every inch of my torso except places that would trigger major discomfort. He feels his way along my waist as I have to actively suppress shivers. 

He then lowers, and that's when my wild heart nearly shatters its cage.

His hands begin at my ankles to roam upwards, exploring the length of me with fingers cold, but his touch wakes my skin, leaving a trail of heat in its wake like dragon's breath on my flesh. A lick of fire's tongue gliding up. I swear my heart stops once his hands reach my rear. His fingers probing—I bite the inside of my cheek—he pauses.

I peer down at him. He says nothing and casually resumes, repeating the same process on my other leg. He then rises gradually, slow and threatening, easily dwarfing me. He stares down at me; his eyes are depthless pits of dooms-day black.

The eerie fear returns.

He looks at another guard and nods at him as they all file themselves back in rank with the other soldiers. My shoulders slump back down from the pent-up pressure that had me inflated like the Stormhawk's gasbag. My eyes gloss over the others and three of them are still being searched as I look for the one who searched me. He walks back and the rear of the cape is the only one with a gold imprint on the back—his insignia different from the others.